Ангел: Angel
by Artificial Starlight
Summary: "This book tells a lot more, you know. It not only mentions Ivan, but another creature. Not merely a Nation-person but... something more heavenly. I think you know what I speak of. Tell me, are you still pure?" *AU of Giving In*


"_If I find you off that bed when I get back, I'll strap you down, da?_"

Matthew couldn't help but grin and think; 'like hell.' He'd been immobile on a mattress for far too long in the first place; however, he knew the Russian before him was only worried. The hesitance in leaving him told all; the way Ivan's expression varied between that fake happy grin and the actual concern he had over Matthew's state.

He decided to keep the atmosphere light with his own joke, "I'm quicker than that- you'll never know."

The hand that had patted his head like a child became just a little more vicious, tussling the blond hair roughly, turning the soft tresses into a big mess. Ivan chuckled, a 'kol kol' sound that usually struck fear into others but Matthew only laughed, squirming under the ministrations. "Non! Leave my hair alone!"

"What did you say, little Matvey?"

"Mon Dieu, I'll stay on the bed- it's not like I can walk right yet anyway," He gave in, huffing a bit as the large hand stopped its cruel treatment. Canada continued his little speech though, grumbling. "Always the hair- it's sensitive, you know. I really don't see why everyone likes it, I don't spend any time on it like France, it's always curly, like, this one stupid curl that won't stay out of my face an-"

Said curl was suddenly pulled slightly. Matthew's rant cut off with a choke, and a red blush spread across his cheeks so fast he could hardly stop it. His violet eyes jerked up to look at the culprit- Ivan's curious expression visible as his rough hand pulled once more.

"I like your hair," He said. He seemed embarrassed about that sudden declaration, and a little dusting of pink seemed to be on the Russian's own cheeks before a familiar childish smile came about on his face to better hide the reaction. "A pretty gold, and very soft, da? Like sunflowers or wheat fields."

A brilliant warmth spread through Canada's chest. He wondered exactly how many people got such praises from the Russian; Ivan didn't compliment others often. At that moment he felt a certain happiness unlike he'd ever had before; after all, he always considered himself average. Mediocre looks, a quiet and boring personality, strange habits... the list could go on...

And here Ivan- the big scary and intimidating Russian who he may have acquired feelings for over the last few crazy weeks- just said his hair was likable. As in... attractive?

"It doesn't seem that special," Matthew mumbled distractingly. Of everything about him, it was his hair that caught Russia's eyes? The idea was humorous, and he felt slightly proud of it ...if one could be proud of their own hair. He wasn't making much sense anymore, was he?

"Thank you," Canada stated, in a sincere voice. He tilted his head up to both smile at Ivan properly and to feel that hand against his scalp one more time. The long fingers moved through his hair once more, a soft, careful action.

Gentle was perhaps not a word one would associate with Russia- he was a large man, with broad shoulders, thick arms, and rough calloused hands. He had so much strength and such little patience; his short temper left destruction in his wake most often than not- and even his sisters would admit he scared them at times.

However, Matthew knew more than anything now, that Ivan was capable of being tender. It was in the way Ivan had carried him through the forest- doing his best to keep him warm from the elements- bandaged him with so much care, looked at him with worry... he fought to save him and protect him when Matthew had expressed that he was _not his responsibility. _

And now, when he brushed his hand through his hair so softly, looking at him in such a strange way; like Matthew was a creature he had never seen before.

It made Canada feel special- something he hadn't felt in such a long time. To be the center of someone's attention, to be touched and seen and spoken to- to be protected even if he didn't need it.

There was so much emotion in those violet eyes before him, and Canada wondered if he was the only one to see them all. Ivan had so many different sides to him; a childish one, an angry one, a sad one... There had to be love in there, and if there was, he wondered if this was what it looked like.

Their faces were close, the warmth from their bodies chased away the chill of the winter- Matthew could clearly see the speckles of dark violets and red in those eyes above. If only they closed that gap, the few inches between their lips...

Ivan leaned forward slowly, as if he had the same idea and Matthew froze, anticipating; heart pounding, eyes focused. He could feel the breath across his cheek, felt the hand in his hair gently pull him closer- Ivan smelled of timber; smoked wood and spice like vodka. It was intoxicating, and being in the middle of this man's spotlight thrilled him...

Suddenly, Russia's body paused, a mere inch from brushing their lips together. He froze up, almost like he was... afraid. His eyes widened in surprise before blinking slowly, as if forcing himself out of a trance. He retreated hesitantly, the hand in Matthew's hair left with one last caress.

They stared at each other, both of them realizing on some level that _something_ just transpired; Ivan seemed unwilling to speak of it however, as he turned with another blush, eyes anxiously straying from the Canadian's form.

"Ah, shower..." He reminded himself lamely, returning to reality. "Da," Stiffly, he gathered together a change of clothes, walking around the queen sized bed to the door on the other side. "I won't be long."

Canada nodded, smiling again. He wasn't exactly _disappointed_- honestly, he wasn't sure what really happened. One second they were joking in the way they normally did; Ivan teasing him in various ways to gain reactions from him- anger, embarrassment, etc... the next second Matthew wanted... more.

Were they really about to... kiss?His cheeks tinted at the very thought, yet it was far from a shameful one. Slowly, over the past week or so he noticed his feelings for Ivan change. These emotions seemed to grow exceedingly fast and it frightened him in many ways- still... Russia was someone he came to trust (and not many people would say that).

Ivan, despite what the Russian would say about himself, was someone he could depend on now... it meant a lot to him too. Matthew was not incapable of defending himself- he had power and strength; he had cunning. However, with all honesty, Canada would shamefully admit that he had been afraid.

He was afraid of being alone.

A part of him was terrified to think he'd be forgotten, at the mercy of such a disgusting, immoral, man- left on his own to free himself. Had Russia simply _forgotten_ about him like so many others had, where would he be? Dead, disfigured, humiliated, violated...

But he didn't.

Ivan remembered him, and he came for him.

The sound of the shower in the bathroom next to the quaint hotel room echoed, and Matthew's mind continued swirling. His expression darkening with every question, and all the answers he had conjured up on his own (some way off and over-board than what could possibly be the truth).

From the transgressions against Ivan and the whole of Russia; the "commands" and rules, the blackmail and treason. All the hurt Russia had experienced, the tales and secrets Canada was now privy to... It made him feel even worse, seeing as he had complained so often about his own government and the way he was not fully represented by the people.

To the act against Canada, him and his land. _Would this affect his people?_

His representative body felt no different; he still had his strength, his life-force, the humans he looked after were still living happily. It was just him, then...

He brought a hand up to feel the cotton gauze wrapped around his chest. The ache in his chest_ The reason they were in a small hotel room;_ the source of the bloody bandages around his body, the reason Ivan was covered in burns, wounds, dirt, and soot.

_Dmitri Mihailov._

That name alone stopped all other wondering. It gave him a sense of dread, and fear- which he thought was pathetic because a Nation should never truly fear a human. He couldn't stop himself from shivering in disgust however. His arms wrapped around him in a hug, a silly useless movement but it made him feel just a little warmer, and it forced his hands to stop shaking.

He could feel the gauze wraps loosen, and the wounds carved into his skin protested the action. Canada only hugged himself tighter. The pain in his chest intensifying. Masochistic, perhaps, but it took his mind off of the other pains in his body. The ones below the belt more specifically.

The simple aches of his body seemed to intensify; his legs shook, his chest and spine burned- every injury was vividly remembered, and he replayed the events that led to each one.

A scalpel dragging along his skin, splitting the flesh wide, or narrow, deep or shallow, some slow, some fast, straight or curved- like a child drawing carelessly within or outside of the guide-lines as if his body were a coloring book. Hands all around him; either with bruising force or disgusting kindness. Burning rocks of salt roughly spread across every red line, infecting every laceration, digging into his skin as a tongue tasted the mix of red iron blood and sour mineral. A dull knife held at his throat before sliding down teasingly, further and further. Sharp pains that made him want to scream; hot tears he had tried so _so_ hard to keep within rolling down his cheeks shamefully.

Hot breath at his ear, an insult or endearing comment- the meaning lost as searing pain ran across every nerve ending, fireworks burst behind his eyes, adrenalin and fear and _pain_ made him dizzy- and he hoped to pass out, but the pain was too real. He couldn't move, couldn't scream, couldn't even beg for it all to stop. So he just shut his eyes tight, wishing for something-anything; he didn't want to see, didn't want to hear- didn't want to _exist_.

The darkness of the room seemed to close in- more sinister than it had been before. Only the lamp on the bedside table lit the furniture. In his building anxiety, it almost seemed to flicker, as if even _that_ small bit of light was being smothered.

His breath hitched and he forcibly tried to calm himself before the sudden well of tears in his eyes fell and he was reduced to a sobbing mess. He had to think- no... he had to stop thinking, that was his problem. Moments ago he was so happy- but the second Ivan walked out of the room his mood turned completely around.

He was such a mess. Was this really him? Was he honestly reduced to something like a _child_, afraid of the dark, of being alone, _needing_ the comfort of some kind of savior?

It was pathetic and not who he was! Matthew Williams was not a cry baby! Soft spoken, kind hearted, and a bit of a target for bullying considering who his brother was, but he did not roll over, he did not regret who he was and did _not _think he was weak. Dmitri Mihailov would not get the better of him!

"Ангел."

_How did he know?_

A tear escaped the tightly closed eyes as another shiver overtook his small form.

"_This book tells a lot more, you know. It not only mentions Ivan, but another creature. Not merely a _Nation_-person but... something more heavenly. I think you know what I speak of. Tell me, are you still pure?"_

_No. _

_Not anymore. _

He was dirty, filthy, tainted with a darkness that had come upon him in the form of a greedy, lustful smile and harsh hands. Like snow stepped on- muddy, melted, infected. He surely had not been innocent, Canada had killed others on a battle-field, lied, cheated, hurt, betrayed. He was not a saint, but perhaps he had comforted himself with knowing he did not enjoy doing such things. As if that made him a better person still.

He was still white- surprised at that very fact, unknowing of _why_.

But now, he held doubt- and he wondered...

Did it show?

He had to find out.

...oOo...

Trembling hands pushed buttons through the red and black flannel shirt, revealing more of the white medical wraps around his torso. He shrugged the shirt off, immediately shivering as the cold temperature of the room freely surrounded his vulnerable form. He was still suffering from slight hypothermia and the loss of heat would do nothing but hinder his recovery, but he threw it aside anyway.

He stared at the white cotton around him, touching the frayed edges of it gently. Ivan had bandaged him perfectly- the gauze did not constrain his movements too much- they were not too tight or too loose. They were placed there with care and he felt saddened at the knowledge that he was about to undo all the kindness Ivan had given to him.

Unpinning the metal clips from the end of the fabric, he slowly pulled it away, unraveling the bandage with hesitance. He hissed in discomfort when it stuck to one of the many cuts and then cried out softly in pain as he pulled it free of the healing scab. Many of them did this, in fact, and towards the end he found a few of the lacerations bleeding sluggishly from the treatment and he was panting from the effort it took to rip the bandages away.

His skin held a glossy tint to it; remaining evidence of some kind of medicine and the thin membrane of natural body clotting agents. Considering he obtained these wounds a mere 24 hours ago, their healing had progressed far quicker than what was normal. Some of the deeper incisions were still quite open and bleeding, but the smaller ones had already closed with delicate encrustations.

Once all the gauze wrappings were removed and the chest revealed in all it's malformed glory Canada took a moment to just... stare. After all, it was a sight to see. Lines after lines, crisscrossing, looping- scribbles and doodles without any kind of direction or idea.

The only thing that made sense was the two lacerations intersecting in the center of his chest. A vertical slash beginning just above his sternum, trailing all the way down to his navel, and a horizontal cut running through both his nipples down to his flank.

A cross.

Because it was his symbol, his calling, his existence.

Matthew glanced down his leg, covered in warm denim jeans, to the right foot hanging limply over the bed's edge. He grasped the pants material and pulled it up to better see the appendage. Another mark- however, this one was not caused by Dmitri even though it looked similar.

It had smooth lines, not carved in the flesh but... just _there_, like a birthmark- and it was small, no bigger than a quarter in either direction. Many people would not notice its presence; for who would look at the top of someone's foot? And if they did happen to see, it is not as if they would instantly think much of it.

Not unless you knew its origins.

Which Dmitri apparently had...

"_The mark of Angels._"

Angels, Devils, the innocent and the dark. How Matthew was apparently supposed to _save_ Ivan from some dark evil- how Dmitri wanted Canada to be _his_ guardian Angel instead. To save his soul- keep it from rotting with all the horrible deeds he had done throughout his life- to get him into heaven.

The man was _insane_.

He was no guardian angel, he wasn't a messenger from God, he couldn't save anyone. He was just... _him_. Canada; Matthew Williams, "son" of Francis Bonnefoy and Arthur Kirkland (France and UK respectively).

They were not human but an extension of the land and people; brought together to have a voice and being. However, even still, Matthew was different from _them_ as well...

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, attempting to slow his heartbeat. It had been a while since he had done this kind of thing willingly but it came to him easily- it was a part of him after all, and one could not simply _forget_ about it like one could ignore a third hand if they had one.

A tingle seemed to travel down his spine, and the space between his shoulder blades rippled, muscles tensing and flexing rhythmically. If one asked he would say it did not hurt; in fact, it felt nice- like something trapped beneath the skin was suddenly pushed out; free. A crackling sound reached his ears, like twigs snapping, and then there was a quiet ruffling, a settlement.

When he slowly began to open his eyes once more there were a few fuzzy objects floating slowly to the ground in front of him. Lethargically, he reached up to catch one, staring blankly at it- delicate, smooth, silky, beautiful, six inches in length, and a soft white.

No...

He lifted the feather up, better to see in the dim lighting provided only by the lamp. _It was not white_.

The light object was released and he turned to see over his shoulder where a seemingly wall of identical feathers were. A wing- large and beautiful, tucked in close to his back, for the wingspan would most likely cover the width of the entire room if stretched. The tips trailed behind him on the mattress, a blanket of feathers.

The muscles within tensed and lifted from the bed, closer to the Canadian, and the blond leaned in to inspect them- but he already knew.

His wings were not white.

And he laughed, at the same time tears began to fall, because it finally showed his flaws- a taint, a sin, an emotional scarring far more effective than war simply because it was an attack against _him_. Matthew, the person, the individual, could no longer be called an innocent- could no longer continue with life with such a naive way of thinking.

_Why did he care?_ His wings were not shown to the world, nobody knew of what he was except for France (that was when he was a mere child, and he was pretty sure the man had forgotten all about it, since there has been no mention of it since). America and England didn't even know! By the time he'd met them, he knew well to hide his abnormality.

Throughout his life as a Nation he had definitely killed while in war, and he lied and hated; he was not incapable of those, despite how everyone thought he _was_. Yet his wings had remained a pristine white; perhaps the only time their purity had been in danger was during the Revolution, after Alfred had attacked him.

The rage and wish for revenge- the hatred and disgust he had felt back then colored the tips of his feathers in a light grey- a step from white, to get darker with every wish of death towards his brother.

He had not seemed to care back then. However, that was _his_ choice- he had willingly seeked revenge, not only on behalf of his Country, but as Matthew. This was different- so different! Dmitri Mihailov _took_ something from him; violated, mutilated, destroyed. And he felt it happen clearly.

"_So beautiful. It makes sense now, why. Golden hair, like a halo. Such violet eyes; although, angels should not be able to hold so much hate within. Not unless they are fallen. What does fallen necessarily mean, though? Whether you are pure or not, you're still trapped here- forsaken and forgotten."_

_Cold metal, dull edges sharper than they looked- "You feel it, yes? That hopelessness of being completely alone; no one is coming to save you. Nobody cares."_

Panicked breathing filled the room, Matthew swallowed thickly, trying to keep the sobs down, trying to stop his tears; trying to _stop those memories_. They were not true! This was proof, right here that he was not forgotten, not alone, and that someone cared...

"M-Matvey...?"

It was thanks to Ivan- the one who probably knew what he was feeling more than anyone else, and that fact hurt him, because that meant... Russia was placed in the same position. He had been trapped, blackmailed, beaten, defeated by someone who should never have control like that.

Who came to Ivan's rescue?

_No one._

That broke him; it hurt his head to think about all the things Ivan had been through, it hurt his heart; it made him sad to think... What could be done? How did he go through all that and turn out so fine? Why-

"Matvey?"

His breath hitched and it felt like his heart skipped a beat as he turned around so fast his neck popped. Wings jerked along with his entire body when he jumped in fright, the appendage stretched out, accidentally hitting the bedside lamp and tumbling to the ground (thankfully, it did not break and the fabric shade just rolled harmlessly under the bed).

Matthew squeaked at the loud sound though, and the fact that his stumbled retreat ended with his bare back against cool black leather of the small couch at the wall. His wings trapped behind him, fluttering anxiously, a small torrent of feathers floating around him.

Wide eyes, both of similar colors collided from opposite sides of the room. Ivan stood there rather stunned, hair still wet from the shower, towel dropped on the floor. His chest was bare, but jeans covered his lower half, fitting him well.

A comical expression of disbelief was on his face, jaw dropped, eyes wide. He didn't know what to say, or do, so he simply stood there, staring.

And Matthew was left freaking out, mind continuing to panic- the first thing that came to mind was that Dmitri was back, because with his voice still in his head, it was as if his nightmares defied reality to torment him here, where he was supposed to be safe.

Then he saw Ivan- the white hair and violet eyes, the thick frame... He would be ashamed for it later on, but the man's presence didn't sooth him immediately. With his wings revealed to him, and the resent debacle it brought to him, he began to think others would have the same reaction. It was too late to take back the abnormal feathered wings into his body- Ivan clearly saw and understood. The question was, would the Russian see him as some kind of heavenly virtuous figure out to save him?

Would he be angry, or afraid? Would he hold such a thing over him as blackmail? What if he told...

Words that didn't make too much sense stumbled out of his mouth, a stuttering mess of, "Ivan! D-don't say... Don't t-tell!"

Russia blinked, visibly swallowing and calming himself, before stepping closer, around the bed. Matthew flinched and the man's movements halted. "Matvey, I won't say anything... It's okay, da?"

"P-promise," Matthew commanded.

"Da, I promise."

Ivan waited, observing with a more focused, rational state of mind than before- he forcefully took his eyes off of the large wings surrounding the Canadian and latched onto the boy's expressive mauve eyes. They were still large and wild, as if Russia were about to attack him, and that more than anything kept him rooted to the spot.

Many times, throughout his life, Ivan enjoyed frightening others- the other Nations, co-workers, hell, even his own boss. Their fear was palpable, the way they flinched, the heightened breathing, the fidgeting and excuses- anything to get away from him. It was so amusing to him, and he would laugh at their reactions (knowing that his laugh was maybe even scarier than his stare).

However, at the look Matthew trained on him, he could only feel sorrow. He knew he was still intimidating, even when he didn't want to be. He didn't want to scare Matthew now, not after everything that happened, not at the present situation. So he remained where he was, unsure of how to fix this.

"Please..." He mumbled. _Talk to me, let me protect you_.

It seemed to have some affect, as the Canadian's body relaxed slightly, and light violets softened. It wasn't really a calmed stance, but Matthew looked towards him with wary acceptance now, instead of fear.

Russia hesitantly took another step, and when Matthew didn't go on the defensive, he covered the distance between them cautiously. He kneeled in front of the blond, like he was a wild animal and Ivan made himself as harmless as possible.

Canada's features smoothed, and a sad smile crossed his lips. He looked remorseful as his head lowered. "I'm sorry," He whispered in his quiet voice Ivan could barely hear. "I didn't mean... I was just thinking- remembering. I got spooked. I'm sorry."

"Da," Ivan replied. He understood perfectly, and the excuse relieved him somewhat- to know Matthew was afraid of something _other_ than him. "Do not worry, Matvey. Nothing will harm you here."

The blond nodded, his form still shaking, but his smile remained, his light eyes glanced down to Russia's face, observing the blank expression. The man looked indifferent except from his dark eyes; they held a knowing spark within. Perhaps it was concern, or sadness, or understanding. Either way, the attention was focus solely on Matthew right then, and it actually put him at ease. Canada drew strength from that gaze and he was reminded of what Ivan had done for him.

He was not forgotten, he was cared for, he had been saved- and by Russia, of all people. Throughout the past week, Ivan had been his one hope, and now, he was a foundation to which he could ground himself to.

Trembling arms lifted, fingers gently touching Ivan's shoulders, and when Russia made no movement against it, Canada slid down the couch, leaning forward. Matthew's arms encircled Ivan's neck loosely and his forehead rested against the large Nation's chest.

Russia wrapped his own arm around the blonde's waist, ignoring the flutter of white feathers around them and the feel of fabric so close to his neck. The Canadian's body seemed to melt against his, tense muscles relaxed, and the shivering ceased. "Thank you," Matthew whispered.

Russia was a bit confused on what Matthew was thanking him for but he nodded slightly anyway. A few seconds passed before Matthew leaned back, looking sheepishly away from Ivan's face. The light blush on his face was easy to see though, and Ivan smirked. "That is the second time you hit that lamp, da? You really must hate it."

A relieved grin lit the boy's face, and he took the change of topic gratefully, "I didn't mean to! It shouldn't be in my way when I'm tripping all over the place, eh?" Matthew shot back.

"Oh, then perhaps you should not be 'tripping' then. If you had stayed on the bed like I said- you do remember what I warned you about, da?"

"Like hell, Ivan."

Russia laughed at that, a deep chuckle Matthew could feel against his chest. Once more, his blush took over as he realized how close they still were. He leaned back further, glancing down at Ivan's chest and turning a deeper shade of red at what he saw.

Ivan's chest was bare, showing strong and broad muscle. There was little hair, but it gave him a burly characteristic, and the strands were too fine to feel anyway, and as light as they were, hardly seen.

His hands remained braced upon the man's shoulders, the skin soft and warm under his palms-he could feel the man's chuckles, the muscles underneath flexing- the power he held. That one arm around his waist tightened slightly and Canada smiled demurely.

Ivan promised to keep him guarded, and for some reason, he took that oath to heart- something he believed with all his heart was unbreakable. Ivan did not make silly promises for nothing; he may have been the type to scare or hurt others consciously or unconsciously, but he would not lie about protecting him, Canada knew.

Of course, a part of him still wondered at how dangerous this very man was- perhaps not to _him_ but to everything. Russia was destructive, vicious, vengeful... and the source, the reasons...

Well, it was right under his fingertips. Ivan's skin was smooth in all places that were not covered in scar-tissue, but that was much less than it should be. Old wound-marks were everywhere; one across his pectorals, a diagonal jagged line at his abdomen. Nicks on his arms, a particularly large one under his left forearm- a few deep ones on his back.. and his neck of course, rough, uneven rings and lines.

Matthew wondered if the wounds on his chest would become so prominent- would they stay with him for the rest of his life too?

"Нет," Ivan growled, and the abrupt change from a happy laugh to an angry snarl was startling (but really, what was Ivan if not bipolar?). The single word, said so seriously, gave the Canadian pause. Had he said his thoughts out loud?

Russia's free hand lifted to his chest, fingers splaying across the middle, and covering one of the large marks. "These were part of Russia, not Ivan. Yours will disappear, Matvey. They will heal well, and leave quickly."

"But they were created the same way. By people-"

"Servants of the throne could torture and execute me as much as they would like, but the injuries healed all the time unless the people of my Nation went under the same pain. Your people were not disturbed by what Dmitri did to _you_. They will not scar."

"You have so many though," He said softly.

"Da..."

Canada closed his eyes, frowning at the implications, wondering at how much pain Ivan had truly experienced to have received so many.

"Can you explain now?" Ivan asked hesitantly. "Why you were crying? Why... you have wings. Are you really-"

"Non," Canada interrupted. "Don't say that word. Please."

Ivan dutifully said no more, but Matthew looked up to see he merely waited with uncharacteristic patience, and Canada sighed, knowing he had to... there was really nothing to explain, but he attempted anyway, "I am not from heaven- I've had these, for as long as I could remember... they're nothing special, just wings. They don't do anything but reflect the soul."

"Reflect the soul?" Ivan's hand reached up to touch one of the many feathers along Canada's right wing; mesmerized by the feel, the solidity.

"The brighter the color, the more pure the soul... when I was little, they were a brilliant white. They're not white anymore."

Ivan frowned, leering more interestedly in the color of the feather he held. Sure it was not a blinding bright white; it was more of a silvery light grey color, almost like his hair... Matthew was worried about that?

"Matvey, I do not understand. The color is fine, da?"

Canada shook his head. "Mm, maybe it's stupid of me, but... Before now, it was a beautiful white. Like snow," He said quietly. "Now, after what he did... it's not."

Russia was slowly beginning to see; it was not the fact that the color changed at all- it was the way Dmitri _caused_ it. That was stupid. Ivan furrowed his brows, "I'm sorry, Canada." Matthew looked up in surprise. "I was not fast enough. Otherwise they would still be white... It is my fault."

"Non! Ivan, you saved me, You and Kumajirou, and everyone else!" The wings shifted, raising up and curling around both Matthew and Ivan, and Canada leaned forward to embrace Russia once more. "If you hadn't came I would still be there, with _him_, and who knows what else would have been done. Non, _thank you Ivan_."

Another smirk lit the Russian's face, "Then stop crying when things could have gone so badly. After all, if you're worried about a little change- really, not much at all, da?- then I'd hate to see your reaction to my wings if I had any. What color would they be?"

Matthew stopped his frantic mumbling of apologies and appreciative thank-yous to think about Ivan's words quietly. "I don't care what your soul's color is; it could be bright white of snow or the darkest of blacks. They would still be beautiful."

Ivan hummed. "I don't like snow, remember? It is stained too easily," He chirped in an almost happy voice. "Very hard to clean blood out of!"

Canada sighed, not creeped out by Ivan's strange way of thinking anymore; he had a feeling the man was only saying that in some twisted way of making him feel better. "I like snow," He said back stubbornly.

"Da," Ivan conceded. "The point, Matvey..." He looked a bit embarrassed. "The color doesn't matter, and the fact that your soul... got darker, doesn't mean much. They are still white, I can't see much difference."

Matthew nodded slowly. "I guess..."

Ivan rolled his eyes. "Aren't virgins the only ones supposed to have pure souls?"

"_I'm not a virgin_!"

"Stop acting like it then!"

"Ne joue pas avec moi!"

"Or what?"

"I'll... Drink all your vodka."

"Because that worked out _so _well last time-"

"Connard."

"Such a filthy mouth. You are France's child, I'd assume you'd know of better things to do with it, da?"

Canada's face flushed, mouth open in shock, and Ivan couldn't help but chuckle; really, messing with the boy was too easy. So many dramatic reactions, much like his brother, only with a good sense of humor.

Matthew's cheeks swelled with an angry pout. Oh, he knew Ivan was purposely messing with him, but he refused to let the Russian have the last laugh. So, doing the only indignant thing that came to mind, he leaned back, arching his wings that had settled around him and flapped furiously.

Despite the little space they were in and the fact that his wings couldn't possibly gain as much momentum as he wished, a miniature hurricane swirled around them, blowing the covers off the nearby bed and forcing Ivan back.

Seeing as Matthew sat practically in his lap, Russia simply fell to the carpet, looking bewildered. When Canada stopped his little act of revenge, Ivan stayed lying where he was quietly, expression unreadable as he gaze steadily at the wings around him.

"I had a bird once," He stated suddenly, and the mood seemed to quite, Matthew tilting his head interestedly. "A regular dove. It was just lying on the side of the path one day; maybe run over with a wagon- but it had a broken wing... and I don't know why I cared, really. For some reason I picked it up and took it to the place I was staying. I tried to help it... in return it sang for me. It wasn't loud, obnoxious, or annoying like many birds were. This one was soft; beautiful. It would sing me to sleep," He chuckled at that, finding it amusing and yet touching. His violet eyes held a far-off look as he remembered.

"I remember it would follow me everywhere it could; it would stay on my shoulder, play with my hair, and chirp to me, like it was having a conversation. I came... to love that bird."

Canada frowned. "What happened?"

"The Revolution." Russia answered hesitantly. "The poor began breaking into homes, stealing anything valuable, they began to kill the corrupted, wealthy, royals who had promised so many things yet never delivered. I fought against them; I had too, even if they were the majority of my people suffering so much... I felt their pain, their grief- but mostly their anger. And I came home bloody and tired and still so angry, so... I lashed out at anything-everything."

"And your bird?"

"I never touched her. But... I scared her, the poor thing was healed enough, it just flew away, ran out the window and never looked back. I never saw her again, and I hated myself for showing that side of me to something I never wanted to taint. Her little piece of innocence, my one slice of peace every time I came home. She _made_ it a place I could call home. And I ruined it... Like always."

Matthew's heart broke a little at those words, the expression on Ivan's face, the sadness in his voice and eyes. He wished he could say something-prove that Ivan didn't _ruin_ anything. Lips parted, ready to say 'you're not a bad person' but Ivan interrupted him with a soft voice, like he was afraid of admitting something. "Everything I care about seems to fly away from me. Most literally now, and I shouldn't be surprised- I should be happy; they're free and I have nothing to offer them-"

Canada leaned over, pressing a finger over thin lips- he had to stop Ivan from continuing; he couldn't hear the man bring himself down any more. "I'm not going to fly away from you, Russia." He stated, voice still quiet, but stern and determined nonetheless and it caught Ivan's attention.

Their eyes locked. "I've seen you angry, I've seen you sad, and I've watched you smile, truthfully and happily. By far, I think those moments mean more to me than anything else, and it's for those that I stayed with you. That is why I agreed to spend this month here- because I knew, underneath all of those abrasive, hostile emotions, you really are kind, and you _can _love someone."

Matthew could feel the pull of Ivan's lips as he frowned, and Canada leaned over further, moving his hand to cover Russia's mouth with his own. He let the sensation of their lips touching last a few seconds before pulling away slowly, peeking shyly up to see Ivan's expression after _that_.

It certainly wasn't one of dislike, if he could judge that correctly. "And you're not incapable of being loved in return."

"Ч-Что?" He stuttered, and a tint of pink covered the Russian's cheeks. "I- you what?"

Canada smiled, and his cheeks were perhaps darker. "I'm not repeating that."

Ivan chuckled, shaking his head slightly, an uncharacteristic stutter tumbling from his mouth. "You are the most surprising, unpredictable, crazy Nation- kid- _annoyance_, I have ever met."

"I will take that as a compliment, _Vanya_."

"Da." He paused as Matthew straightened, reaching over to the forgotten bandages that went around his chest. For some reason, Ivan knew what was coming next; those wings would disappear- somehow- he had no idea where they went when the boy was disguised as a regular human. He didn't want that to happen. "Wait... the wings... can they stay? For a little while longer?"

Matthew blushed, smiling a bit. "Oui."

...Thank You...

Rah, I didn't really know how to end it, so I hope it didn't seem abrupt. Hope ya liked it~ Angel!Matthew was harder to write than it should have been XD Sorry for it being so LATE! I am so busy lately, but I never forgot! :)

**Dedicated to HetaliaCanada-Fan from Deviant-art; Congrats on winning the contest!**

She also won a really nice art gift from our lovely DA Group Creator; a picture of Angel!Mattie Here:

http: / giving-in-ruscan. deviantart. com/ gallery/ 30304330#/d4gi3p5 (remove 6 spaces)

You rock :D

_Translations:_

Что (Russian): What - I actually love this "shto" is so cute!

Ne joue pas avec moi (French): Don't mess with me!

_Disclaimer_: I do not own Hetalia~! Or angels? Or Nations.


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